The bullet had been surgically removed and Parker had learned to walk again, but active duty was out. His partner, Noah Kent, still felt like shit that he wasn’t able to stop the bullet that had nearly severed Parker’s spine. Like so many cops, Kent thought he was Superman. “Your name isn’t Clark Kent,” Parker still told him. Kent was still on the job and Parker was a P.I., one with a very slight limp and sometimes a lot of pain.
And he’d known he should never have taken this job.
Unfortunately he’d been chosen for this detail by Silvio D’Amato Junior himself. Silvio just happened to be Parker’s brother-in-law. Well, technically ex-brother-in-law, as Resa, a few years back, had decided that living with a cop just wasn’t her style.
Trouble was, Parker had known it wouldn’t work a long time before she’d come to terms with the truth. They’d married over Silvio Senior’s objections, then divorced over his shame. No one in Silvio D’Amato’s lineage had ever been divorced. Parker could still hear the old man ranting, that fake Italian accent rumbling as he called Theresa, “Resa, my bambina Resa. How could she do this to me? I am blessed with six children and my youngest brings shame to the family. It breaks my heart.”
There was plenty of that going around, Parker thought as he shot a look toward Silvio Senior, who had passed the family business to the hands of his namesake a couple years ago. Silvio Senior’s dark eyes were huge behind his spectacles as he pressed a plump, manicured hand onto Junior’s shoulder, whispering, always whispering in his ear.
When Parker had married Resa, he’d had no clue how enmeshed a family could be, each member tied into another, torn and tortured, loyal and yet longing to escape. From Silvio Junior’s need to please and outdo his father right down to the seething jealousies of Mario and Antonio that they had not been the chosen ones, the family was rotten with dysfunction. Anna, now collecting appetizers, would no doubt head to the restroom to purge soon. Julianna, who was greeting guests at the door, had gone under the knife so many times that Parker was convinced her eyes wouldn’t close at night. Only Theresa, his Resa, had survived the family unscathed.
Or so he’d once thought.
Add to that the sick rivalry between Silvio Senior and his brother, Alberto D’Amato, bad relations that didn’t even die with Alberto awhile back. Parker had learned, the hard way, that the D’Amato familia was one sick clan. In the end he’d found it ironic that Resa’s old man had bulked so much over their divorce while the rest of the family was quietly going to hell.
According to family lore, the divorce had nearly caused Resa’s ailing mother, Octavia, to die of mortification. However, Octavia had survived and was now holding court in the garden, a bejeweled cane at her side and a blanket on her lap. She was attended by one of her sons, Antonio, the happily married father of four who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Octavia didn’t notice Parker as she sipped from a glass that didn’t so much as quiver in her elegant long fingers. The matriarch forever. Diamonds dripped from her ears and encircled her throat, wrists and fingers. Not one to hide her wealth was Octavia D’Amato.
All six of her children were in attendance. Parker caught sight of Mario and Anna, two of Resa’s siblings, schmoozing up clients near the flowering vines that had overtaken a wall of the old cloister. He told himself he was prepared in case Resa showed.
He tried not to think about her, about how hard he’d fallen or how fast. It had been unlike him. Until Theresa D’Amato he hadn’t believed in love at first sight, or being obsessed with a woman, or even settling down. But Resa with her smoky brown eyes and naughty, knowing smile had caught his attention. She was coy and smart, and when she threw her head back and laughed that throaty little chuckle, he was doomed. Dark coppery hair, long legs, a tight butt and firm breasts that filled his hands—you get the picture.
Getting her into bed hadn’t been difficult; she’d been as hot for him as he’d been for her and their lovemaking had been nothing short of mercurial.
Until it had gone cold.
Stone cold.
On the heels of Ian’s death.
Oh, hell.
His heart twisted and he forced his mind to the present. To the D’Amato winery and the party where he was supposed to be sharp and steady, the “heat” even though he was no longer a cop.
What the hell was he doing here? Why had Silvio asked for him by name?
But Parker knew.
Parker’s duty was not so much to keep out terrorists, thugs or would-be thieves, but more to ensure that the riffraff, specifically anyone connected to Silvio Senior’s brother, Alberto, did not make an appearance. Years ago Silvio Senior had scammed half the family fortune from the significantly less clever Alberto, his younger brother. Alberto had died a few years back, but his progeny had survived, and they all had long memories, fueled by acrimony.
Parker walked through an arbor wrapped in grape vines and about a billion sparkling lights. The evening was cool, bordering chilly, but the party was in full swing. Knots of guests clustered outside on the flagstone patio, an open garden area that had once connected the cellarium, a storage area for the monastery, and the chapter house, where the monks had met to mete out chores and discuss their sins. Rumor had it that some monks had been buried beneath the flooring, though Parker thought that sounded like something D’Amato had made up to give the place more mystique.
Along one wall, inside the alcove surrounding the garden, a string quartet was playing classical pieces that Parker vaguely recognized. Silvio’s attempt at culture.
D’Amato’s garage was open, his array of vintage cars from the 30s, 40s and 50s, all parked on a gleaming tile floor, their glossy exteriors polished to a high, almost liquid gloss. Past the courtyard and through the main house, a waterfall cascaded into an infinity pool that shimmered turquoise amid mosaic tiles and thick, fragrant shrubs. Everywhere, liveried waiters passed out stemmed glasses of the most famous of the D’Amato vintages.
On the far end of the courtyard was a raised dais, complete with arbor, lights and microphone. Silvio Junior was slated to speak to the group, a hand-picked assortment of bigwigs invited to sample his latest vintage.
A bunch of crap, Parker thought, and checked his watch.
A big black guy with a shaved head stood with his back to one aged pillar. Oscar, Silvio’s personal bodyguard and leader of his security team, looked even more uncomfortable than Parker felt. His collar pinched tight around the thick muscles of his neck and he was three hundred pounds if he was fifty. “The man’s going to be speakin’ in a few. Everyone’s got to have their cell phone turned off.”
He glanced at the open door where a thin blond woman in five-inch heels and shimmery silk dress paced the foyer, cell phone pressed against one ear, an unlit cigarette in her free hand.
“Everyone, here, in the courtyard,” Parker clarified.
Oscar shook his head. “Everyone period. Including you.”
“No way.”
“That’s what he said, I’m just passin’ it on. I’ll be behind the stage, you take the front, okay.”
Parker wasn’t going to let the phone thing drop. “Security needs phones.”
“We have walkie-talkies,” he reminded him.
“Ancient technology.”
“Silvio…he’s not exactly high-tech, now.”
“I can carry a loaded sidearm in here but no phone?”
Oscar rolled his palms up to the starlit sky. “I just follow the rules, I don’t make ’em.” And then he spied the blonde in the foyer and took off on a mission.
Parker watched him go. No way in hell was he turning off his phone. He switched it to Vibrate, left it in his pocket and decided that was good enough. Silvio would have to deal with it. The way Parker figured it, Silvio D’Amato was lucky Parker was here at all.
At that moment Silvio Junior appeared on the dais. All eyes turned toward the robust man with the shock of silver hair and thick black eyebrows. Though barely five-eight, Silvio had a presence about him that
was only enhanced by his Armani suit and Italian leather shoes. He appeared strong and confident, a man to be reckoned with, rightful heir to all fortunes D’Amato.
Planting his back to a brick column, Parker scanned the old monastery grounds with a critical, suspicious eye. Old, rambling structures like this could be a nightmare to secure. Though the walls and adjacent structures had a fortresslike appearance, they were filled with dark nooks and deep crannies, unseen hiding spots. There were shadowy caverns cut into the hillside to house the wine barrels, as well as a maze of underground tunnels that could easily become routes of escape should anyone want to take a shot at the top runner for the wine country’s “vintner of the year.” There was access through the grape receiving platform and shipping dock. A bell tower loomed high above the tasting room, which had once been the church. The tower itself was dark now, the staircase leading upward secured. And yet…
He glanced up at the highest point of the turret, focusing on the belfry, that dark open space under the roof. For a second he thought he saw movement. Weird. He’d checked the lock himself, so he knew it was secure. Probably a bat, as it was a little past twilight, when bats and owls and insects stirred.
Squinting, he saw no dark shape hunched near the railing. No assassin setting up a high-powered rifle aimed at the stage and Silvio D’Amato’s cold heart.
But really, who would want to harm Silvio or this, his pride and joy?
A question he’d asked Silvio when his ex-brother-in-law had strong-armed him into this gig. “We all have enemies, Parker, you know that. Just as we all have secrets.” His brown eyes had darkened and he’d taken a sip from his glass of Pinot.
Secrets…anyone entangled with the D’Amato family got the crash course on family skeletons.
“Should I be watching for someone from Uncle Alberto’s side of the family, or have things been quiet on that front?” Parker had asked Silvio Junior.
Although Silvio let the question drop, the vein pulsing in his forehead had provided all the answer Parker needed. “Just do the job I’m paying you for,” Silvio had snapped.
But it wasn’t money that drew Parker here tonight. Though he was loath to admit it, Parker couldn’t stay away. He hoped to see Resa again. Call it idle curiosity or something deeper, but he’d never been able to resist a chance to be near her.
Resa…
He was on alert for her as he walked the perimeter and observed the guests all talking, laughing and sipping ruby-red wine. He recognized more than a few faces—relatives or business partners he’d met at family to-dos when he’d been married to Resa.
A lifetime ago.
After a brisk stroll past the chapter house and the former dormitory he did a perimeter check of the garden area, but found nothing that warranted a second glance. The cellars seemed secure, the kitchen and dining room were occupied by a frenzied staff that had been screened and cleared before the event.
And then he saw her.
At least a glimpse.
Resa.
His heart clutched. He’d known there was a chance she’d show up, but had thought that if Silvio had mentioned that he’d be there, she might have passed. Apparently not so. He caught a glimpse of her walking down a long hallway lit by candles, her dark hair sweeping her shoulders.
Or maybe he’d been mistaken.
That woman didn’t seem to move with the same grace he remembered of Resa, or was that his imagination? Had he made her more of a sensual enigma with the passage of time? Just as wives who died suddenly were often elevated to sainthood in the surviving husband’s mind, maybe his perception of Resa was imbued with sexual mystery.
Get it straight. Remember how it played out, he reminded himself. Yes, she’d set her sights on him. Yes, she’d come on to him, lured him. Yes, she’d used him to rebel against her family and yes, she’d tossed him aside when the going got rough. But had he created an image of a woman who had never really existed?
The woman with auburn hair joined a group, and he realized it couldn’t be her. With Resa, there was always that tug in his gut, that chemistry.
He couldn’t let himself be distracted. Whether Resa was at the event or not, he had to pay attention. Silvio was taking the stage, smiling, welcoming people to the D’Amato Monastery Estates and the crowd seemed rapt, all eyes turned toward the dais. So far so good.
He turned away from the dais and saw her again…this time closer to the old chapter house doorway. Instinctively, he eased toward her, moving around the edge of the crowd and along the passageways of the cloister.
Remembering.
How they’d come together; how they’d been ripped apart.
Though she didn’t look over her shoulder, she slipped through the doorway to the old library. Behind him Silvio’s voice boomed through the speakers.
“…our unique blend…oaky, with just a hint of pear…”
Parker barely noticed. He told himself that he wasn’t following his ex-wife just to talk to her, but that there was something secretive and restless about her. Something that required soothing.
As if Resa is going to do anything desperate. Come on, Parker, you know better. Get back to your job. Forget her.
But he followed her through the library to the dormitory and the night stairs, which were originally used by the monks in the evening to get from their rooms to the church.
But they’d been locked. Right? Hadn’t Oscar said they’d all been secured?
Hell.
She was ahead of him, walking swiftly, stirring the flames of candles flickering in wall sconces, all part of the ambiance of the party. Into the stairwell she went, and he held back the urge to shout or startle her.
At the stairs to the church she stopped, turned and sent him a sizzling glare that melted his bones. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.
He approached, smelled the scent of gardenias, a perfume he’d always equate with her and those incredible nights of twisted sheets, sweaty muscles and pure heaven.
“I was hired. What about you?”
“Invited. I’m family. Remember? You’re not. Not anymore.”
He ignored the barb. “So why aren’t you out celebrating and lifting your glass to your brother?”
Her smile twisted wickedly. “Being part of this family is a dubious honor at best. Listening to Silvio—” She rolled her expressive eyes and turned a slim palm toward the heavens. “Come on! Talk about boring.”
“Then why show?”
“Free drinks,” she said, then laughed at her own joke.
He was caught again. Quick as lightning he was trapped in that invisible but steely hold she had over him, and she knew it. He saw it in the warm liquid brown of her eyes, the curve of her mouth.
“It’s good to see you.” The words slipped out before he could catch himself.
“I don’t know why.” Her brown eyes met his, and he felt locked in her gaze, lost in her scent, a mixture of gardenias and fresh rain. “Nothing has changed, Lucas. We can’t fix what’s shattered.”
He wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter; he was willing to settle for the things that remained whole…a pair of brown eyes so warm they could ward off a winter night, a hint of gardenia and spring rain. But before he could find the words, the moment had passed. The window closed.
Lifting an eyebrow, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to the ladies’ room.” She turned on a heel, then looked over her shoulder. “And you’re definitely not invited.”
A reference, no doubt, to the times he’d sat on the rim of the tub while she’d bathed in mounds of scented bubbles and allowed his hands to wander under the piles of foam and through the deep water to touch her in the most intimate of places. There had been candles surrounding the tub and they’d sipped wine, D’Amato Chardonnay, and she’d moaned in pleasure until he’d lost control and joined her.
Water and bubbles had sloshed onto the floor, the candles had flickered and some had sizzled out, but they’d made love in t
he claw-foot tub filled with warm soapy water, their bodies slick and hot and wanting.
Even now, he remembered that passion. How exciting, sensual and fierce it had been.
Before it had died so suddenly.
Killed by a lie.
Damn.
Caught in the memory, he watched her go as his cell phone vibrated against his leg. He pulled the phone from his pocket, saw that his old partner, Noah Kent, was calling. Not unusual. It was Friday night and sometimes, after a few drinks at the local watering hole, Kent would phone. He could wait. Parker slid the phone into his pocket again, then looked up to spy Resa walking through the library, then turning left at the far doorway. Wait…The restrooms were to the right. She should have known that. To the left was a dead end. The locked stairwell led up to the bell tower and down to the catacombs where barrels were stored in the hillside.
Behind him, Silvio’s voice droned on about the hints of vanilla from French oak barrels in his latest creation. The speech was background to the pulse beating hard in Parker’s ears as he pursued her.
Did she go up or down?
Should he follow?
No. Go back to the party. Do your job, then get the hell out. Who cares what she’s doing? It’s obviously some sort of cat-and-mouse game, the kind you know is dangerous and she knows you can’t resist?
But he heard something above. The scrape of a shoe? Hell. He tried the door and it was unlocked. He found his walkie-talkie, tried to raise Oscar but got only loud, static-laden feedback. So much for stealth. Switching it off, he entered the staircase and considered taking his gun out of its holster.
Why? It’s Resa. You saw her come into the stairwell, and she’s not a threat.
Not to anyone but you.
Setting his jaw, he waited. Ears straining.
Did she go up…or down?
Toward heaven, or hell?
He turned toward the lower stairs as another footfall scraped overhead. Slowly he began the climb up the spiral staircase, the only sound the thudding of his own heart.
Thriller 2: Stories You Just Can't Put Down Page 20
